Confessions Of A Liar

Solid Gold

In 1986, I was graduating from Tulane’s A.B. Freeman School of Business, and my trajectory was about as unspectacular as you can imagine. I was headed to a life with a boring job, a boring wife, 2.5 boring kids, in a boring house located on a boring cul-de-sac. In an effort to put off the inevitable, I stayed in New Orleans one last summer parking cars at “4141,” an uptown dance club. Parking cars is not glamourous work, but there was one perk, the sex.

Single, drunk women, would exit the club in the early morning hours to find me, a nice clean cut college kid standing there in my khakis and crisp white Izod. I’m sure I looked like a beacon of youth and hope, standing in stark contrast to the douchebags inside the club.  For a broke college student, an offer of breakfast and sex made every day feel like Christmas.

It was a Thursday night around two in the morning when Bea Arthur and another Golden Girl stumbled out of the club, drunk and looking for trouble. Golden Girls was a huge hit in 1986, despite the controversy over senior citizens talking about sex, and these ladies were definitely enjoying the spoils of their recently acquired fame. Incidentally, the other Golden Girl asked that I withhold her name if I ever retold this story, so from here on out I’ll refer to her as “Rue.” 

As we stood around waiting for their limo, they started flirting with me. Bea pointed her thumb in my direction, “Rue, what do you think this one weighs?”  Rue replied, “I don’t know, but I bet he’d fit in my overnight bag.” It was corny, but I laughed. The ice was broken and soon they were begging me to show them around town. Unfortunately, I told them, I’m wasn’t off for another two hours, but I offered to draw them a map of where to go. Bea wasn’t used to being told she couldn’t have what she wanted, so she marched back into the club and told the manager she was taking me.

I wasn’t sure if that’s how it felt to be a prostitute, but if it was, I liked it.

Two minutes later, I was in the back of their limo and we were off looking for a bar.

We ended up in a seedy dive down in the French Quarter. The kind of joint you need a local to help you find.  It was dark, the floors were sticky, and the bartender was missing fingers on both his hands (not to mention, an eye) but somehow he pulled off the best Mai Tai that has ever crossed my lips.

Bea and Rue started getting loose, and we all started dirty dancing to Kool and The Gang, which looked a lot like me dancing at my Bar Mitzvah, if I had ground my hips into my grandmother instead of Cindy Goldsmith. As I was doing my best white boy epileptic stripper impersonation this big, fat, old, guy came out of nowhere and started working Bea’s ass. I thought to myself, “Hey asshole, you don’t get a cock-block bye because you carry an AARP card.” Of course I didn’t say anything. He was bigger than me and I avoid confrontations because I bleed easily. And I cry. It’s fairly humiliating. So, I decided to move onto Rue.  At 21, rubbing up against anything feels good, even an old woman. Especially with your eyes closed.

Afraid that if we continued to dance we might need to defibrillate the old guy, I suggested they sit down while I ran over to get another round of drinks. By the time I got back to the table, my eyes had adjusted to the darkness and I realized that the fat, sweaty, cock-blocker was Marlon fucking Brando. He was breathing heavy, like he had asthma or something (by the way, I don’t think it was asthma. I think it was the extra 185 pounds he was carrying around like a unitard filled with rice pudding). But there was no question, it was Marlon Brando. I put my out my hand and introduced myself and he asked me to call him “Uncle M”, which I found super creepy. 

I’ve always loved Brando because he had big, brass balls. He didn’t take shit from anybody and he didn’t care what anyone thought of him. Prime evidence of this attitude is Oscar night, 1973. Brando wins the Academy Award for The Godfather, but instead of going up and accepting it, he sends Sacheen Littlefeather, dressed like an American Indian Princess, to turn it down because of the “mistreatment of American Indians by Hollywood.”  Can you imagine Kevin Costner turning down his Oscar for Dances with Wolves because Hollywood portrayed American Indians disrespectfully? No fucking way. And you know why? Because Costner is a puss. Brando’s sack is so big he needs a special velvet pouch to keep it in. He’s a man. He doesn’t need a fucking award from some pansies to validate how awesome he is.

The second round of drinks were gone and Bea was itching to find a bigger crowd and live music, so we left the French Quarter and headed uptown to the Maple Leaf.

Back in the limo, Marlon lit up a joint and soon the car filled with the sweet smell of this Cambodian skunkweed he had snuck back into the States wedged inside a hollowed out stick of deodorant.

He exhaled a big plume of smoke, licked his lips and leaned forward, trying to focus on me through his beet red eyes, “So tell me college boy, how’d you end up with these two cunts?

The moment after the word “cunts” left his mouth, my whole world stopped. I wasn’t sure if I should respond or wait for Bea to throat-punch him. The etiquette in these situations can be a little tricky.

Bea took a big drag off the joint as a smile curled up at the corners of her mouth. “You know the best thing about you Marlon?”

  “Why don’t you tell me, sweetheart.”

  You gotta love Marlon. Motherfucker is either the baddest dude alive or just too stoned to know when not to be an arrogant cock-sucker.

Bea handed the joint to Rue and exhaled through the open window, without even bothering to look in Brando’s direction , “You’re in perfect equilibrium, your bravado is offset by a cock the size of a light switch.”

Game. Set. Match.

  And then Marlon, then Bea, then Rue, and finally me, laughed harder then I’ve ever heard four people laugh.

Old people rock.

Seated in a booth in the back of the Maple Leaf with the sounds of Cyril Neville and The Uptown Allstars swirling around us, Marlon and the Golden Girls held court. People stopped by, asking to take pictures and get autographs. Marlon ordered up a bottle of Korbel and we all toasted each other, taking big swigs out of plastic cups.

  I was sitting next to Rue, who was caressing my thigh under the table while Marlon, eyes closed, bobbed his head to the bass line. Bea turned to me and said, “Tell me something about yourself.”

  Knowing that “college grad, headed to dead-end job”, was a conversation killer, I went with my back-up: answer a question, with a question.

   “What do you want to know?”

  “Where’s the most interesting place you’ve ever been?”

  “Excluding tonight?” I said, smiling.

  Rue whispered in my ear, “Honey, we haven’t gone anywhere…yet.” Then she lightly flicked my ear with her tongue.

  I swallowed and looked to Bea, who smiled like a black widow does, before eating its mate. I peed myself a little.

  “I don’t know, maybe the Grand Canyon.” I said weakly.

  Marlon, who still had his eyes closed, piped up, “The Grand Canyon is a deep gash about as interesting as a hole some five year old digs in his backyard.” He opened his eyes and locked them on me, “You know the best thing that ever happened to me on a trip?” He asked, but didn’t wait for an answer.

  “I was on a five-day publicity tour in Sydney for some piece of crap movie I did to pay the bills. I was being shuffled from a hotel room, to the backseat of a car, to a TV studio everyday, being asked the same fucking asinine questions over and over. On the morning of day three, I woke up, grabbed some cash, walked out of the hotel, got in a cab, and told the driver, ‘Get Lost.’

  “Poor fucking guy — I think he was Aborigines — he goes, ‘Get lost? How am I supposed to get lost, mister?’ So I told him, ‘I have no idea, we’ll figure it out together.’ Son of a bitch drove for about three hours and we ended up in this dust-covered town called Dubbo where I boxed a kangaroo, made out with the mayor’s wife and had the best meal I’ve ever eaten.”

  “The food was that good?” Rue asked, suspicious.

  “Oh, the food sucked, but this meal, these people…”

  Marlon drifted off.

  “…they were the nicest, most honest, open, funny, motherfuckers I’ve ever met. And you know what? I never would’ve had that meal if I hadn’t gotten lost. Getting lost is the best thing you can do for yourself.”

And with that he picked up the bottle of Korbel and drained it.

I leaned across the table towards Brando, “Help me get lost. You can’t leave me here knowing I’m never gonna taste that meal.” I looked at everyone. “Let’s all get lost.”

  Bea patted my hand, “We are lost sweetheart. I don’t know where I am.” She looked around, “Just some bar, loud music, people dancing, I’m good right here.”

Brando smacked the table with his open palm, “I’m in.” He was on a roll, “Fate brought us together, now we gotta let it take us on an journey.”

Bea wasn’t having any part of it. “Well my ‘journey’ ends here.”

Rue downed her champagne, “I wanna do it. C’mon Bea.”

Bea, who doesn’t like being cornered, much less, feeling irrelevant, said, “Are you kidding me? You think this is some…some, Lewis Carroll story?” She pointed to Brando, “He’s stoned” and then me, “and this one’s dumb. Cute, but dumb.” She looked to me, “Sorry darling, but it’s true.”

“Quite alright.” And it was, mostly because it’s true.

Brando motioned for the bill, Rue gathered her stuff and I sat there with a shit-eating grin plastered across my face.

“I’m going potty, don’t leave without me.” She got up and winked at me.

“Wait, are you serious Rue?” As Bea chased after Rue, her voice disappeared into the mix of music and chatter all around us.

Brando took a look at the bill, dug into his pocket, and tossed some crumpled up bills on the table. We both stood up and he put his arm around me, pulling me in tight with his mouth next to my ear. He reeked of the sweet smell of cheap alcohol, “Two things. One, no matter what happens, you agree with me. This isn’t a democracy.” I nodded. “Two, if we end up fucking these broads, Bea is mine. You get in my way and I’ll twist your nuts off and shove’em up your ass.” Then he patted me on the shoulder, smiled, and headed for the door.

I wonder if it would’ve been pushing to ask if he’d adopt me.

We were standing outside of the Maple Leaf when Rue and Bea exited the bar. Brando motioned to Bea, “She in?”

Rue interlocked her arm with Bea’s, “She’s reconsidered, right Bea?”

Bea reached out and poked Marlon in the chest, “If I end up on some shit hole farm with a bunch of toothless idiots dancing around to Dueling Banjos, I will personally make sure that you will legally be able to use the handicapped parking spots at the mall.” Bea stepped back, satisfied.

  Brando smiled back at her. “Honey, I’ve been parking in the handicapped spots since ’78, but it’d be nice to do it legally.” He turned and started walking down the block.

“Hey where are you going? We have a limo!” Bea screamed.

Marlon kept walking. Remembering rule one, I followed.

By the time we all caught up to Marlon he was standing on the corner of Oak and Carrolton, hands in his pockets, muttering to himself.

It had been two minutes and Bea was impatient, “Now what?”

Right on cue, a cab pulled up. The passenger window slid down. The driver, black and still wearing sunglasses, asked, “Where ya’ll going?”

Marlon turned and gave me a wink as he leaned down to look at the driver. “We don’t know.” And in that distinctive New Orleans drawl the driver said,  “Well what y’all wanna do? Drink? Dance? Eat?”

Marlon straightened up and patted his stomach. “I look like I need to eat?”

“People eat all day n’ night. I once caught my sister, Agnes, at 3am, eating a bag of chicken wings my moms had frozed in the freezah. The girl’s got a set of teeth that can chew through chain link.”

This was our guy. If we had any chance of getting lost, this guy would help us.

Marlon rubbed his chin, “We’ve already been to the French Quarter, now we want to see the real New Orleans. Where should we go?”

“Some good places not far from here.”

“And suppose we weren’t…white?” Marlon lobbed the question out there.

The driver lowered his sunglasses to get a better look at us. “So you folks Asian? Latino?”

Marlon dropped a fifty dollar bill on the front seat and without a trace of sarcasm said, “We’re black.”

The driver pocketed the fifty, “Yeah, local black folks don’t go to the French Quarter, unless they working down there. I might got a place, but you on your own. I can’t take no responsibility for what happens.”

I looked to Rue and Bea, who looked pretty scared. Before I could say anything, Marlon barked, “Sounds perfect, everyone in the cab!” 

The driver turned to check us out as we got in the backseat. “Hey ain’t you Maude?”

“Oh for Christ’s sake.” Bea muttered.

Twenty-five minutes later we were the only white people standing in a massive crowd of black. As a white person, I never thought about the color of my skin, but at that moment I was acutely aware that I was different. Remembering my father’s “dangerous situation” instructions, I separated my ID from my wallet and nonchalantly dropped it in my sock. My dad had said, “This way the coroner will be able to identify the body.” I come from a long line of optimists.  

We were deep in the 9^th ward. Prior to this, the closest I’d been to the “projects” was an after-school special on ABC. Twenty years from now, this whole place will be wiped out by Katrina, but on this night, at this small neighborhood club, New Orleans couldn’t have felt more alive.

A funk band was squeezed into the corner and it seemed like everyone had a cigarette and a drink in their hands. The air was thick with laughter and music and I don’t know how it was possible but the whole place, even the people standing still, seemed to be moving in rhythm.

I ordered four beers but when I turned around, my group had vanished. I figured it couldn’t be hard to find the only white people in the place, so I started to move through the crowd, finding the beat, easing my way closer to the band. It was there that I found Marlon with his arm around a skinny woman about 25 years old.  She had a giant afro with a tiny pink bow that looked like it was holding on for it’s dear life. Their eyes were closed and his face had a look of total and complete serenity. I was overcome with jealousy. I wanted to feel like that, but I knew I wasn’t ready to just let go and enjoy. I turned to look for Bea and Rue.

I found them, backs to a wall, holding court. And like the well rehearsed comedy team they were , Bea hit the punch line of her story just as Rue turned around, hiked up her dress and stuck out her ass so we could see that written across her panties in beautiful gold script were the words, “Solid Gold.” Suddenly the scrum of people in front of her doubled over in hysterics, hugging each other, wiping tears from their eyes. I had no idea what the joke was, but it didn’t matter. You can’t go wrong with “Solid Gold” written across your ass.

“I got beers!” I said, holding up the cans of beer.

  A size 24 black woman squeezed into a size 14 tube-top eyed me like a pork chop. “He wif you?”

  Rue quickly wrapped her arms around me and drew me in, “Sorry ladies, he’s mine.”

  The size 24 woman reached out and traced her finger down my arm, “Honey, you ever get tired of that white meat, you just give Carmel a call. When I’m done wif you, you’ll be all curled up like a baby, cryin ‘Mommy, the big black woman broke my little white dick in half.’”

  And the whole crowd doubled over in laughter again.

  It was an amazing night. I shared a joint with a guy who told me about having to use “Negro Only” water fountains. I watched Marlon as he mesmerized a crowd with the most soulful version of Al Green’s “Let’s Stay Together” I’ve ever heard. And I danced with Carmel, who, at one point, grabbed my dick and yelled over the music, “My pussy’s got a bigger dick than that.” And by the looks of Carmel, I’m sure it was true .

  I drank Dixie beer, took random shots of liquor and at one point, I ate a MoonPie that this kind old lady sitting on a barstool held out to me.

  A MoonPie is an incredibly simple food. Two round graham crackers sandwiching a marshmallow patty, dipped in chocolate, vanilla or banana coating. As I bit into it, I realized that this was my Best Meal. And it wasn’t because that chocolate MoonPie was perfect, it was because everything was perfect. The MoonPie just made it sweeter.

  Hours later we stumbled out of there, jumped into a cab and everything got quiet. It was so bright outside that it felt like the sun had moved closer to the earth, and eventually they fell asleep.

  I watched through the window as the cab glided past worn out neighborhoods and it occurred to me that I  couldn’t find that bar again if I had to, which was probably a good thing. Some experiences shouldn’t be repeated.

  Strange as this sounds, the night was so perfect that having sex almost felt like it would’ve ruined it. So we all stood there awkwardly, saying goodbye, hugging, kissing, promising to stay in touch. And then the ladies turned and disappeared into the hotel.

   Marlon looked down at me, shading his eyes from the sun, “So kid, what’re you gonna do now?”

  “Go home, shower, sleep, maybe get something to eat.”

“No, not now, now. I mean with your life, now.”

  “Oh, well I have a job in Atlanta. My mom told me I had to graduate with a job so, y’know, I got one.”  As soon as I said it, I realized how lame it sounded.

  Brando sucked the moist air in through his teeth. “It’s good to listen to your parents, but at some point you gotta make your own decisions. Be your own man.”

  “I’m not the best at making decisions. I usually wait for the decision to make itself.”

  “That’s because you think these decisions are about life or death, but they’re not. Every decision is just about life, living. It’s when you stop making decisions that you die.”

  Marlon put his hand out to hail a cab.

  I stepped in front of him, “Can I ask you a question? And no bullshit, you gotta be honest.” 

“Sure.”

  “That Oscar, why’d you really turn it down?”

  He squinted, “I didn’t like how American Indians were being depicted by Hollywood.”

  “Fuck you, I’m not buying it.”

His face lit up with a huge smile, “Okay, this is between you and me. Nobody else, unless I’m dead. Then I could give a rat’s ass who you tell.”

  “Deal.”

  “That broad, Sacheen Littlefeather? Her real name is Marie Cruz, she wasn’t even Indian. I had my wardrobe guy steal that costume from Warner Brothers. Man, she was one hot piece of ass, but no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t nail her, so when I was nominated for the Oscar we cut a deal.” He paused while I caught up to what he was saying. “I won, then I won again.” He laughed to himself, a cab pulled up, and he reached out to shake my hand. I knew I’d never see him again, so I wrapped him in a big bear hug. Eventually, he pulled away and I think we were both a little surprised that I was crying.

  He held me by my shoulders, “Hey, you want the secret to a happy life?”

  I nodded.

  “Loving relationships.”

  Then he kissed me on my forehead and stepped into his cab.

  After that night I knew I couldn’t wear a suit to work, punch a clock, or sit in a cubicle. Ten months later, I quit that shitty job. Marlon and Bea and Rue had changed my life, my direction. Fate is like that.

  Without them, I’m not me.

©eleventeen inc. 2010

Pizza Day

         I used to be a pizza lover, you see when I was in 2nd grade pizza day was every Tuesday.  As far as we were concerned, it was really the only reason to come to school (the other reason was because we weren’t allowed to stay home). 

         The pizza was lovingly handmade by lunch ladies who looked like the bull dykes in those prison movies that ran on late night TV.  The crust was like cardboard, soggy cardboard at that, the tomato sauce was more like tomato juice and the cheese had the consistency of windshield wiper blades. But we didn’t care, pizza day was a day of celebration.  We even came up with a little pizza day song that went something like this:  (hum your own tune)

Pizza Day

by Mrs. Wilmer’s 2nd grade class

Oh, Pizza, Pizza, Pizza Day.

We’re so happy,

that we want to say….

We’re so glad it’s Pizza Day.

(begin again at the first line and repeat until threatened by the knife wielding bull dyke lunch lady)

         Seals and Crofts it ain’t, but I think it got the message across.

         Anyway, pizza continued as the number one day of the week for most of the year until the 21st of April or better known as “Black Tuesday”.  

The day started off just like any other day with roll call, The Pledge of Allegiance and Brett Singer eating a dollop of paste. We made it through 4th period no problem and then everyone headed into the lunch room for the beginning of Pizza Day.  I was seated in my normal spot between Saul Fink and Timmy Simmons, we were in the midst of very serious negotiations over some orange juice, a piece of chocolate cake and a broken compass when all of the sudden Sukie Watanabe made a break for the bathroom.

         Sukie was this really cute Asian girl in my class that I had a major crush on.  Even back then I was fairly shallow.  I don’t remember having anything in common with her, even talking to her much. The thing that attracted me to Sukie was that she had the same hair cut as Marlo Thomas from the show “That Girl”, which I thought was really hot. It didn’t matter anyway since she had a crush on Ricky O’ Randle.  Ricky was the class clown and I would probably put him more into the “physical comedy” genre.  He was the kid that stuck a pencil up his nose or would draw a face on his fist and do a little impromptu play that generally involved farting. It seemed the more she liked him, the less he liked her and the more I liked her. This evil downward spiral would repeat itself many times throughout my life.

         Unfortunately Sukie wasn’t the most agile of 2nd graders and she didn’t get her foot out from under the table, so she basically fell and stopped the floor with her face.  This by itself would have been enough to keep us all entertained for weeks, some of us years, but we had no idea what lay ahead.  Sukie quickly collected herself and again started to make her way to the bathroom.  And she would’ve made it if Mr. LeRoy hadn’t stopped her, which may have been the second biggest mistake of his career (the first involved a hamster, a petri dish of water, electricity  and 35 stunned 4th graders).  Just as Mr. LeRoy was badgering Sukie for her hall pass she lost it and proceeded to toss what looked like all of lunch, breakfast and part of a lung onto his grey polyester suit and brown suede Hush Puppies.

         Sukie recovered from her illness, but the ramifications of being called “Pukie”, forced her to change her hair color, get a nose job and eventually join a convent. 

         For me the tragedy was two-fold. First, my crush on Sukie evaporated. It’s hard to stay attracted to someone after you’ve seen them doubled over a trashcan. And secondly and more importantly, the excitement and enthusiasm that we all felt about Pizza Day was forever lost (seeing somebody puke can do that to a 2nd grader).

         As hard as we tried to replace Pizza Day, Schnitzel Day was never as sexy.

Fly Like The Wind

         When I was a kid, I had an Uncle Harvey who wasn’t right.  His head was too big for his body, he was unemployed, unshaven and understandably unhappy.  Uncle Harvey was a mystery to all of us.  First and foremost I was never really sure how he was related to me.  I asked my dad, but generally the response was, “Don’t ask so many questions” or “What are you doing, writing a book?” or “I’m not really your father.”  The last one was just a ruse to change the subject. He was my dad, he just wasn’t happy about it.  Eventually I did find out that Harvey was somehow related to my father, the direct connection was never made, but I know that Eastern Europe, homemade vodka and borscht somehow played important roles in the story.

         The only thing that Harvey was passionate about was NASCAR.  Every year for the Daytona 500 Uncle Harvey would show up at our front door, with a snack-sized bag of ridged Lays in one hand, a 6 pack of Tab dangling from his other hand and a big grin on his face.  I think he liked coming to our house because we had a color TV and air conditioning and judging from the number of times he went to the bathroom, indoor plumbing.

         Most people watch auto racing for the crashes, but Harvey watched for the pit stops.  As soon as a car screeched to a stop Harvey would whip out his stopwatch and start rooting, “Fly like the wind! Fly like the wind!” Which always seemed like a strange chant for a NASCAR pit crew, but since I wasn’t really a big race car fan, I figured he knew best.  I imagined that at one point in his life Harvey worked on a pit-crew, maybe he was the guy the jacked the car up or bolted the tires on , but judging by Harvey’s body shape, chances are he was the guy that handed the driver a drink, probably Tab.

         My father, whose modus operandi was to avoid rather than confront, decided the best way to get Harvey to stop coming over was to not be home, which is what we did the following Daytona 500. I should’ve known something was up when my father was hustling us out of the house at 6am on a Sunday morning.  It was actually a pretty great day, we had breakfast, lunch and dinner out, an unheard of treat for us.  We didn’t get home until it was dark and pathetically, Harvey was sitting on the front steps of our house, an empty bag of ridged Lays and four empty cans of Tab in front of him.  Before we got out of the car, my father turned to me and my brothers and said that no matter what he said, we were to agree.  So dad got out of the car and walked up to Harvey, I couldn’t exactly hear what was being said, but I knew from his body language, dad was apologizing and Harvey was accepting it.  By the time I got up to them Dad and Harvey were both looking at me with sad long faces. My father said  “I was just telling Harvey how your pet rabbit, Roscoe, had to have emergency surgery.”  Harvey just stared at me.  It was an awkward, empty silence, and hating silences I decided to fill the space. “The vet said that if his hemorrhoids don’t improve they’ll have to remove his ass.”

         There was another long pause, everyone’s eyes went from me, slowly back to my father, which was when he started to sweat. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my father sweat so much, so quickly, in my entire life.  It was like he sprung a leak. His forehead, his upper lip, his underarms.  He was just one big sweaty mess. On top of that he broke into this weird nervous laugh.  It sounded a lot like the laugh Ricky O’ Randle made back in 2^nd grade, when he inadvertently farted during the Thanksgiving play and a big turd rolled out his pant leg onto the stage.  My dad said the only thing that I think an adult can say in a situation like that, “Kids, what do they know?” And made the international sign for crazy by circling his temple with his index finger.  He then put his arm around Harvey and started moving towards the car saying, “Let me give you a ride home.” As he glared at me over his shoulder.

         I was grounded for one week, I’m sure my punishment would’ve been worse if Dad hadn’t brought this all on himself.  He was the one who started the lie, he was the one who told me to continue the lie and he was the one who made the mistake of trusting me to make up a good lie.  If you ask me he was the one who should’ve been grounded, but my father always liked to point out that just having me around was punishment enough.

         As the years passed Harvey started to smelled funkier and funkier.  I couldn’t ever really put my finger on what the smell was, it just wasn’t the kind of odor you wouldn’t normally find on an adult. As best as I could guess it was a cross between Jujyfruits and diaper cream. My mom had to rent a steam cleaner from the grocery store to get the odor out of the carpet and couch.

          One year he showed up bearing gifts. “Official” pit crew jerseys with our names sewn over the chest pockets. We grudgingly put them on and sat there watching these cars driving in a big circle, which is when I concluded that car racing is a sport for idiots. Very few sports require less of their fans than auto racing.  You don’t have to follow a score, the rules are pretty simple, and as far as strategy it looks pretty straightforward (go fast).  I’m sure there is a lot going on behind the scenes, but if you can watch a sport from the roof of a Winnebago, only able to see 300 yards of a 2.5 mile track, there is no way you can say you are “involved” in the race. Especially when you take into consideration that a car traveling 230 miles an hour probably covers that 300 yards in about 2 seconds. Imagine if you went to a football game, but you could only see 10 yards of the field, and when the team was on that ten yards they sprinted past at full speed. Not quite the same experience.

         Regardless, Harvey loved the sport, and dressed in our pit crew shirts we all feigned interest. Excluding my mom, she smiled and said, “This looks like a boy’s day to bond.” And then turned and hightailed it out of the house. I watched her go making the same face a family dog makes as he watches his owner leave for work. Sad, resigned, confused, angry and resigned again.

         On that particular Sunday Harvey didn’t want to leave. And when my mom walked in at the end of the day, to find all of us still sitting there staring at our 10^th straight hour of TV, she was stunned. I watched as my father and mother exchanged looks and even back then I could tell that although this wasn’t my father’s fault, this was going to be his fault. In his defense, he had tried to get Harvey to leave, but Harvey just ignored him or changed the subject and eventually my father had to put his arm around Harvey and physically move him towards the door and out towards the car.

         I watched from the window as Harvey gave a final look to our house. I waved to him, and he held up his last can of Tab and smiled at me. My father started the car, and before he could put it in gear, Harvey walked back towards me and as if we were playing out some dramatic scene from a prison movie, he put his palm up against the window screen and I put mine up against his. I could feel his soft palms through the wire mesh.

         He looked past me to the TV over my shoulder, “Hey, today was fun. Thanks.”

         It was sincere and heart breaking. To me, this day was anything, but fun. “It was great Harvey. Thanks again for the shirt, I’m gonna wear it to school.” I figured there had to be a loophole in the ten commandments for this type of lie .

         Harvey’s face lit up. “Good I’m glad you like it. Hey, don’t ever forget if you ever need anything you can always call me. I’m family and family is always first in my book.”

         I wasn’t even sure that we had Harvey’s phone number or if he had a phone. I smiled at him, “I will.”

         Then my dad was at Harvey’s shoulder. “Time to go Harvey.”

         “Yeah. Okay.”

         I held my hand to my ear like it was a phone, “Hey Harvey, if you need anything you can always call me too. Family first.”

         His face lit up again. “Thanks.”

         Then my dad, with his arm around Harvey’s shoulder, walked him back to the car, they got in and I watched as they disappeared down the street.

         Harvey never called and he never came back over, he just disappeared, almost like he was never here, but I remember him every year when the Daytona 500 is on TV.  I sit down, pop open a Tab and when the pit crews jump over the barrier I scream “Fly like the wind! Fly like the wind!”.

Pool Boy

When I was in 7th grade my family moved to Florida.  I know there are a lot of people who like Florida, hell, I’m sure there are people who love Florida, but I’m not one of them.  I just don’t think people were ever meant to live there.  It’s too damn hot and humid. Trust me, from March to September Disney World is not the happiest place on earth, unless you are Satan, and honestly, even he would think it sucks.

         There didn’t seem to be any way around the incessant heat unless you had a pool, which it seemed everyone had in their backyard.  We, of course, didn’t have one. My dad said they were like big blue money pits. This was a pretty typical argument for my father. There was the “big white money pits” (boats), “big stucco money pits” (our house) and the “105 pound money pit” (that would be me).

         Not having a pool can be a problem on a hot summer day in Florida.  It’s kind of like not having thermal underwear if you’re in Minnesota, in December, ice fishing.  You can probably get by, but you’ll be miserable.

         Of course when you don’t have a pool you’re only one invitation away from having access.  So my plan was to make sure that I was invited to every pool party, regardless of whose party it was or what the party was for or if I was actually invited.

         That summer you would’ve thought I was running for political office.  I was doing birthdays, bar mitzvahs, even a couple of Sweet Sixteens.  Sure people looked at me strangely, but I found that if I had a present in hand I was given a little more latitude. Eventually someone would start asking questions, like who I was and what was I doing there, which usually ended with me getting booted out. It seems that people can be a little touchy about uninvited guests. My goal was a dip in the pool and no punches thrown, if I could accomplish that, it was a good day.

         Eventually crashing the parties got a little too stressful.  I needed to make sure I knew whose party it was, had to have the right present and most importantly, you have to be dressed right. The wrong outfit makes you stand out like a sore thumb. Just a hint, never wear cutoffs to a wake. In my defense, I saw cars and a pool, it didn’t occur to me that it wasn’t a pool party until I was standing in the front hallway holding a “Dukes of Hazzard” wrapped gift, a towel and Hawaiian Tropic “Deep Bronzer” tanning oil. For those who are wondering, mourners hit pretty hard.

         I needed a new plan and the idea came to me early one morning when I mistakenly set my alarm for 7:00am instead of 9:00am.  Getting out of my house earlier than usual I had an epiphany. People actually go to a job every day.  You see I wasn’t opposed to work, as long as I wasn’t doing the work. The only thing that eclipsed my laziness was my ability to get carsick and sneeze on command. These character quirks were the root of a really funny family joke where my father would tell people I was adopted. I’m pretty sure it was one of those “esoteric” jokes because no one ever laughed.

         All these people leaving for work meant that there were lots of unattended houses, that could probably use some attending.  For most people this probably would’ve dawned on them much earlier, but most things don’t occur to me until they hit me in the face.  Which explains why I was still wearing a Puka shell necklace and mid-calf gym shorts in 2001.

         This plan was considerably better than my last plan. The trick became finding the right house.  Obviously it had to be empty during the day, but it also had to be shielded from any neighbors, which is how I ended up at the Gupta’s residence. 

         The Guptas were a hard-working Indian family that had moved to the states as immigrants and owned a restaurant.  The whole family worked there and in the summer even the kids were required to put in at least 5 days of work.  The backyard was surrounded by trees that shaded the yard with a canopy of leaves.  It was perfect.  I would park down the street, sneak through their side lawn, open the gate and just like that, I had a pool.  I brought everything I needed, a cooler with some food and drinks, a towel and a radio, which I played low so that the neighbors wouldn’t get suspicious.  I was even getting bold enough to strip down so that I could get a full body tan. (When was the last time your ass cheeks felt the sun on them?)

         It was a Tuesday, and I was just applying the Hawaiian tropic to my butt, feeling pretty good about myself and what I had accomplished.  Well actually, I hadn’t accomplished much, in reality I was living off of what others had accomplished, but that was close enough for me. Suddenly my moment was interrupted by the sound of the sliding doors opening.  I was face to face with the Guptas visiting grandmother.  At this point most people’s fist instinct would be to cover up, but I figured that freaking out might tip her off that I was trespassing, so I did what made sense.  I held up the bottle of suntan lotion and pointed to my back, motioning for her to cover my back.

         I’m not exactly sure what she was thinking when she came face to face with a naked 17 year old standing in her son’s back yard, but since she didn’t speak English and I don’t speak Urdu, we had a small language barrier.  She stared at me for a little while and then raised her eyes to the sky and started letting out some wailing that can only be compared to the sound a goat in labor makes.  I didn’t know what the wailing was about, but being somewhat egocentric I assumed that she was thanking some Indian God for sending her a gift like me.

         I didn’t move and her wailing stopped and we just stood and stared at each other.  I wasn’t sure how old she was, but she wasn’t bad looking and my mind started to wander. Normally my mind wandering wouldn’t be a problem, but the fact that  I wasn’t wearing any clothes, and I had an erection, made it hard to hide my thoughts.

         She wasn’t the best lay I ever had, but she was the most memorable.  For the next three weeks I was pretty much a regular visitor. Eventually we came up with a system whereby she would let me know the coast was clear by leaving one of the front windows halfway open and I was able to actually start using the front door instead of coming through the side yard.  Her name was Hafaz, but I called her my “Curry Momma” and she called me her “Stud Muffin” or at least I think she was.  As I said before we had a bit of a language barrier and talking was hard, so I bought a dictionary and we would both point to words and try to piece together sentences.  For me it was the perfect relationship, conversation was sparse, I had full access to a swimming pool, a stocked refrigerator, and then there was sex. Surprisingly, I wasn’t all that popular with girls my age, or any age for that matter. To me, dry humping a door-jam equaled getting to third base, so this was a dream come true.

         Prior to this relationship the longest time I had dated anyone was 3 dates, her name was Cynthia Hannah.  At the end of our 3rd date she told me that she didn’t think we had much of a future together, which seem somewhat apparent given that we were in 7th grade.  Obviously somewhere along the way Cynthia and I got our signals mixed up, she was looking for a long term relationship, I was looking to feel a real, live breast. Hafaz and I were beginning week number three, which was quite a milestone and I decided to surprise my Curry Mama. Instead of coming through the front door I came through the side entrance, like in the old days, and along with me I brought a back-pack containing two glasses and a bottle of Manishevitz Concorde Grape Wine, which I had swiped from home.  I didn’t know much about wine, but I figured that if it was good enough for blessing the rabbi did at synagogue, then it must be good enough for my 21 day anniversary.

         I set up my wine and two glasses on a little table by the pool, then I stripped down and stood there waiting for her to notice me.  I would say I was standing there for about 2 agonizing minutes when the tinted sliding glass doors finally slid open and there stood Mr. Gupta. It’s hard to say who was more shocked, but judging from the fact that I peed myself, I would have to say me.

         It seemed that my Curry Mama had gone home. She had probably told me, but since we couldn’t really understand each other, I missed it.  It didn’t matter anyway, because nobody believed what I was up to, not the Guptas, not my parents and not the cops who showed up to arrest me for trespassing and indecent exposure.

         I didn’t have to spend anytime in jail or anything, but when the story got back to school it didn’t make me the hero I thought it would. Scoring with somebody’s grandmother doesn’t garner much respect.  To add injury to insult, I was required to do 500 hours of community service and get a part-time job to pay to have Mr. Gupta’s pool emptied, scrubbed and refilled.  It seems that his whole family was a little skeeved at the thought of me skinny dipping, and wouldn’t go near the pool until it was decontaminated.

         The downside was that my days of pool-hopping were over, but the upside was that I was now pretty popular with all the old ladies at my synagogue. 

Snowballs

            It’s 1987 I’m in Knoxville Tennessee, home of University of Tennessee, This was homecoming weekend and everywhere you looked there were sorority girls and fraternity boys who looked like they had just walked off the pages of a Ralph Lauren ad campaign.  Their clothes were clean and creased. Their teeth were straight and almost iridescent.  They were blonde and blue eyed and their skin was smooth and unblemished.  I imagined that when they crapped it was shaped like animal circus cookies, and smelled of jasmine and rose hips.

            I, on the other hand, was knee deep into 2 hits of acid and 4 tequila shooters.  My jeans were ripped and my shirt was stained with blood (it wasn’t mine). My hair was in disarray and I smelled of beer, Doritos, and just a hint of sandalwood. In short, I was a pariah.

            For those of you that have never done it, acid has a weird way of fucking with you, or maybe it’s just me, but one moment I’ll be at a party thrusting my hips to “Beat It”, and the next moment I’ll be teleported to an entirely different location. I’m not sure how I got there, but honestly, I don’t really care, I once watched a laundromat dryer for 2 hours, just the dryer, there wasn’t anything in it. Everything is entertaining on acid.

            This time I was teleported to the end of a line of people waiting to pay for their refreshments and assorted sundries at a Majik Market. It was 2:36 AM (an estimate, since losing the ability to tell time is another side effect of acid consumption) and I am giggling uncontrollably, holding a pack of Hostess Pink Snowballs, a bag of Cheetos (crunchy not puffy), a bottle of orange Gatorade and a roll of reflective tape (it was shiny and I thought it would make my friend Mike happy.  I’ve always felt if you can make someone happy for $3.99, you should).

            My first thought was, “man I gotta stop giggling before somebody notices that there isn’t anything to be laughing about”.  My second thought was, “this might be the most beautiful Majik Market I have ever been in.”  The whole place was done in University of Tennessee colors.  Orange and White floor tiles, orange counters, orange and white striped walls, all the merchandise stocked full and fronted and lots of bright white light.  My third thought was “If I have a son, I wonder if we can have the Bar Mitzvah reception in this place”.  I think a lot when I’m tripping, and my thoughts seem real important at the time, but as you can see, they are not.

            All of the sudden the guy in front of me pulls out a gun and screams “This is a holdup, nobody move, empty your pockets and don’t make a sound.”

            Now I’m somewhere between laughing really hard and shitting my pants, not to mention that I’m really confused.  Am I supposed to stand still or empty my pockets?  I don’t have a problem doing either one, it’s just that I can’t do both at the same time, actually it would’ve been hard to do any two things at once at that particular moment.  For some reason this guy didn’t see the humor in the situation, which I thought was sort of selfish.  Who did he expect to find standing in a Majik Market at 2:36 AM?

            He eventually decides that I would be easier to deal with if I don’t move, which is okay with me because I’m pretty good at not moving, but I can’t stop laughing and now I’m getting hungry, so I asked him if it was okay if I ate one of my Hostess Snowballs, he went ballistic.

            “What are you some sort of moron, this is a fucking stickup!  Just shut-up and stand still!”

            “You think they dye the coconut flakes pink or they grow pink coconuts?”,  I said, holding the Snowball up for him to see. The guy smacks the Snowball out of my hand, which only confirmed my first instinct, he was selfish.

            Now between my laughing and the Snowball and this guy screaming, the other people started to freak out, which should’ve been a sign to me that there was some sort of danger in this situation, but instead, I found myself with the sudden need to relieve myself, and like a 4 year old, it had to happen soon. “Dude I gotta break the seal.” He just looked at me, which I assumed meant he didn’t understand, “Water the goats.” He just stared. “I need to make pee-pee.”

            Not surprisingly this armed burglar was not as empathetic to my situation as I would’ve liked. He pointed his gun at me and told me to shut up. This was the first time someone had pointed a loaded gun at me, actually it was the first time I had seen a gun close up. My people don’t carry side-arms, so I plucked it from his hand to get a better look at it. No one was expecting that, at least not the burglar, which is why it was so easy to grab.

            It was heavier then I imagined and it felt solid, like if you threw it the gun would inflict more damage on other things than it would on itself, which I suppose is the point of firearms, but at that moment it was a revelation. Anyway, I don’t know why, but I just threw it, and in slow motion I watched it sail through the front window of the store and land on the hood of a Chevy Malibu parked in the front parking spot.

            Everyone just stood silent for a beat, I looked over to the burglar and his hand was still pointed at me, only now he looked naked, powerless, and than an instant later someone yelled, “GET HIM!” and all the guys jumped on the guy, punching and kicking him. I actually felt bad for him until I remembered he had smacked the snowball out of my hand. “Karma”, I thought to myself, although for the record, I’m not exactly sure what that means, but it sounded right, so I went with it.

            A few minutes later the cops showed up and hauled the guy, now crying and bleeding, out of the store.  The next day the local headline read, “Snowball Boy Foils Majik Market Holdup” and I was sent a case of pink Snowballs from the Mrs. Freshy’s company.

            There’s no great moral lesson here, except never try and eat more than two packs of Snowballs in one sitting (bongs and Snowballs are a dangerous combination) and much to my amazement, according to my Mrs. Freshy’s connection, there are pink coconuts.

Wandering

“If you wander off and don’t come back before I’m ready to leave, you will have to find your own way home.” I was eight and rather than looking at it like a threat, I looked at it like a challenge. Me, my mom and my younger brother were standing at the entrance to the “big” Giant grocery store.  This place was huge, bigger than any other grocery store in the area.  The produce section alone was bigger than the inside of my house.  There was just too much to look at, to much to discover, it was pulling me away from my mother’s cart and there wasn’t anything I could do about it.

         I always liked the freezer section with the long row of glass doors containing what appeared to me all my favorite food.  Fish sticks, pizza, creamed spinach and of course ice cream.  I would open each door individually and let the big gust of cold air hit me, surround me until I couldn’t take the cold anymore, than I would write my name in big block letters in the moisture left on the door and close it, move onto the next one.  I also had a thing for the meat department.  There is just something about the way the meat is all organized in blocky, clear wrapped packages.  It called out to my anal side, before I even knew I had an anal side.  More than the packages, I loved the butchers, to me they were real men.  They stood on display, cutting and chopping and grinding meat.  Their aprons covered in blood.  I wished my dad had a job where he came home covered in blood.  It’s hard not to know you’ve accomplished something when you walk away wearing what you did.

         At some point I realized I should check for my mom, so I did the smart thing and decided not to waste time checking the store, but ran right to the parking lot.  I could miss her in the store, but if I was sitting on the car, then she couldn’t get away. Although, when you’re eight time has no meaning, you’ve got so much of it you lose track of it, which is exactly what I did. I miscalculated, and when I got to the parking lot the car was gone, not moved, gone.  I was far from home, had no money and was getting hungry fast. 

         Walking was an option, I wasn’t sure how far it was, but I knew that it took about 15 minutes by car, so walking moved to a final option.  I would’ve taken the bus, my mother had taught us how to use mass transit at a very early age, but I didn’t have any money and I knew that even if I begged, the bus driver probably wouldn’t let me on.  I fell back on the only option that made sense, call home.

         I walked back into the grocery store and went up to the manager’s booth, which sat by the cash registers and overlooked the whole store.

         “Excuse me mister.” I began.

         “And how can I help you today?”  The manager said in his best, I’m talking to a little kid voice.

         “I was wondering if you could call my mother and ask her to come back and pick me up.”

         “Excuse me?”

         “My mom, could you call her so she’ll come back and pick me up?

         “Did you’re mother drop you off?”

         “No.”

         “So how did you get here?”

         “My mother was shopping.”

         “And she’s still here shopping?

         “No. She told me that if I wandered off she would leave me here. I wandered off, so she left me here.”

         “Son, I’m sure that you’re mother wouldn’t leave you here. Why don’t we take a look around the store for her?”

         “Her car isn’t in the parking lot.  I’m telling you she’s at home.  Call you’ll see.”  I said it matter of factly, almost dared him.

         The guy just stared at me.  He couldn’t believe that my mother, or for that matter, anyone’s mother, would leave their child in his store. I’m sure this wasn’t covered in his Giant Food’s manager’s manual.  He picked up the phone, I gave him the number and he dialed.

         “Hello, this is Rex Musgrave, the manager over at the Giant on Liberty Road.  It seems I have a little boy here who says he was left in my store.”

         There was a pause and then Mr. Musgrave turned his back to me, but I could still hear what he was saying.  The tone of his voice changed.  He was being nice, but he meant business.

         “Well I understand how you would want to teach the boy not to wander off, but you see you can’t leave him in my store…it’s an insurance issue and to be quite honest a damn risky lesson to teach an eight year old….no I won’t tell him to walk home because if something happens along the way I’m the one that’s going to be held responsible.  You’re going to have to come pick the boy up.”

         There was another silence and he said, “He’ll be sitting in front of the store.”

         Then Mr. Musgrave turned back to me, his face was all red and tight. I think it was from trying not to lose his temper. Whatever the case, when he saw me his face softened and he pulled a quarter from his pocket.

         “Why don’t you go buy yourself a Coke and wait on that bench right there.” He gestured to a bench in front of the store.  “Your mom will be buy soon to pick you up soon.”

         I did as he said and eventually my mom showed up.  We drove home in silence, which was worse than talking.

         This like a lot of lessons my mother taught my brothers and I, this one was learned the hard way.  She was right, always right, and we were wrong, always wrong.  For her, the methods weren’t as important as the results. I learned not to wander off, which I didn’t do until I was 18 years old, then I wandered off and never went home again.